


He's Not Real

by t0t4llyaw3s0m3



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0t4llyaw3s0m3/pseuds/t0t4llyaw3s0m3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has taken Sherlock's death hard. Really hard. Now he's seeing Sherlock everywhere, but he knows it's all in his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Not Real

John Watson sat in the armchair at 221B Baker St; staring at the wall with an emotionless expression on his face. He found that turning off his thoughts helped to distance himself from the feelings—it had been over a year and he still suffered from weekly nightmares and panic attacks. He’d be reading a book or making a cup of tea, suddenly think of Sherlock, and start to cry. In the beginning, he’d cry for hours, loud sobs that wracked his whole body; but now he cried silently, tears slipping quietly down his cheeks, sometimes gone unnoticed.

He started going to his therapist again after he began to see Sherlock around London. The first time it happened, John was at a crime scene at Lestrade’s request. One minute he was examining the dead cab driver, glancing up and noticing something out of the corner of his eye; and the next Lestrade had him by the shoulders, looking worried and scared. His expression gave way to sympathy after John insisted repeatedly that he had seen Sherlock. Lestrade looked him in the eyes, concerned; and spoke quietly. “John…he’s gone. He’s gone and I know it’s hard but he’s not coming back.” John stopped coming to crime scenes and answering his mobile after that.

He rarely left the house now. Mrs. Hudson came to check on him periodically, but he tried to avoid her. The way she looked at him-sympathetic and sad-made him feel as if something was wrong with him. He preferred not to talk to people because it always hurt and made him think of Sherlock which led to crying, and he couldn’t take their worried expressions. His therapist didn’t help either because he knew if he started talking about what happened he’d never be able to stop, and it was much easier on the whole to just keep everything bottled up inside, no matter how much it hurt him. John couldn’t even bring himself to visit Sherlock’s grave anymore, but he couldn’t bring himself to forget about Sherlock either.

John had slept fitfully all night, plagued by recurring nightmares about the phone call and the jump and the blood; and soon he gave up trying to sleep, rubbing angrily at stray tears as he stumbled into the living room. Still to groggy to even think about making tea, he sat down in the armchair and closed his eyes in a vain attempt to /stopthinkingstopitjuststopthinking/ when he heard footsteps in the hall. John took a deep breath and tried to sound composed. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m fine, you don’t have to check up on me-” John trailed off as he turned around. 

Sherlock stood in the doorway, wearing his black coat and blue scarf and staring at John. “No you’re not,” he said simply, and moved towards him. John stepped backwards, away from Sherlock, and ran a hand nervously through his short hair. “You’re not real,” he managed, sounding shattered and close to tears. He sat back down in the chair and brought a shaky hand up to his face, wiping away tears that had already started to form in his eyes. “You’re-you’re not real-you’re not-stop-/stop it/-” John didn’t realize he had been rocking until a hand on his shoulder quelled his movements. “John,” the familiar voice pleaded. “Look at me!” But John began laughing in broken gasps, refusing to look at Sherlock. He didn’t realize his tears had started to fall until he felt the (imaginary) hand on his cheek, brushing away the tears. Sherlock’s other hand (notrealnotrealnotreal) cupped his chin and tilted it upwards until John was staring into his (nostophe’s/notreal/) eyes. “John, please,” begged Sherlock, and John had never heard him beg before, and then he was inches away. John took a shaky breath before Sherlock closed the gap and then Sherlock was kissing John. Sherlock’s left hand gripped John’s thin shirt, pulling him closer as his mouth pressed firmly against John’s. John jerked away but (he’s/notreal/) Sherlock’s breath was still hot in his face and John couldn’t take it, couldn’t deal with the loss and move on (if that was even possible) when he was being reminded of it /every goddamn day/ and /iwanttodieiwanttodieican’ttakethisi’mnotstrongenoughjustpleaseletmedie/ and then he was crying again but he didn’t care because he was /alone/ and /Sherlockwasn’tthereSherlockwasdead/ and then there were arms around him, pulling him into a hug and John was sobbing into his (imaginary, John, /he’simaginary/) shoulder and wrapping his arms around Sherlock (/he’srealhe’srealhe’snotdead/) and squeezing him tight (he’s /reallyhere/) so he’d never leave again. 

John raised his tear-streaked face from Sherlock’s shoulder and looked up at him, still unable to believe that he was actually here. Sherlock looked down at John and no words were needed, their eyes communicating ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I missed you’ and ‘I’m back now’ and ‘I love you.’ Like a sudden realization: I love you. 

Sherlock tilted his head down again until his lips found John’s, closing his eyes and covering the back of John’s neck with his hand. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, gently tugging on curls as Sherlock pulled him closer. They broke apart, and as they looked at each other, Sherlock could see the suicidal thoughts and grief that John had had to deal with, and was still dealing with; but he could also see the forgiveness. John could see the hate that Sherlock had for himself and the guilt that might never fully go away; but he could also see the love. When they looked into each others’ eyes, the events of the past year were forgotten, and all that remained was 221B Baker St. and the skull on the fireplace and the armchair and their arms around one another and the look they got when they really looked at each other-the look of disbelief. And luck. The look of undeserved happiness, of utter contentment, the look of a man who has found his reason for living.

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, feeling safe and secure, and blinked up at him. Sherlock smiled in response and leaned down slightly to whisper in John’s ear. “I’ll never leave you again,” he promised.

And John believed him.


End file.
